


Epilogue-Prologue

by afrikate



Series: Thayer Street [1]
Category: NSYNC, Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2012-11-02
Packaged: 2017-11-17 15:30:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afrikate/pseuds/afrikate





	Epilogue-Prologue

It was the fall of 1998 when Chris finally got his own show. It was at a smallish gallery, but it was a **solo** show of his art in New York City. He was so proud of himself. Mark thought he could probably sell several of his paintings for quite a bit, and maybe a couple of the sketches for somewhat less. He was hoping so, because ramen noodles were losing their appeal. 

He wandered around by himself mostly, holding a glass of champagne, moving from group to group, listening to people talk about his art. It was totally fun and he felt giddy about it, though he was trying not to let it show. Mark kept trying to corral him, walking up and introducing him to wealthy patrons and he made as much small talk as he could before he disappeared to do more of what he thought of as reconnaissance. As the night went on, Mark kept him updated-two sales, for sure, of some larger oil portraits. One of a watercolor. And then Mark stopped him, and introduced him to an older woman, thin and wrinkled, but still beautiful, he noted, examining her cheekbones with a professional eye. They chatted briefly, and then she said, "I'd like to buy a few of your pieces." 

"Really," Chris said, smiling, "well, that's wonderful. Which ones?" 

"That's part of the reason I wanted to talk to you," she said. "Mark has promised me that lovely watercolor you did of the Asian girl, and two sketches of her as well. But there's one he said you told him wasn't for sale, and I've fallen in love with it." 

"Not for sale," he said, "hmmmm..." And she steered him to it. He wondered how it had gotten into this show; he must have approved it but he had no memory of doing so. It was Justin, from **that** morning, of course. It was a full-body sketch; he'd captured the long limbs, the just-coming-in curls and the bruises, passion-dark on his skin. He was overpowered, suddenly, by the scent of Justin after sex and the sense-memory of what he'd felt like underneath him when they'd fucked. He took a breath, deep, concentrated on filling his lungs and releasing. Then he turned to the woman, who had been watching him closely, and said, "No, I'm afraid that one's not for sale." 

"No," she said with a smile, "I wouldn't let him go either."  
  



End file.
